A few of my long, and longer, writings...Read at your own risk
i am not your queer
I am not your queer.
Clearly you expect a dick sucker
To pucker up to your agenda
But I am not your queer.
I am not your GBF...
I am not liberal to your causes...
I am not a rainbow flag
Bending over backwards for conservative progress...
I am not your queer.
I am not a hot pocket steaming with AIDS
I am not a puddle for babes
I am of no creed and I have no race
I have no style or worth, while
at face value,
You continue to give me one.
But I am not your queer.
I am not a
methamphetamine pushing Queen.
I am no
Coke-snorting, cock-sucking,
Club-swinging,
Show-tune-singing,
Wrist-wrapping, shoe-tapping,
Hair slicked in lube
Ass lickin’ dude,
Cum guzzling
Gutter whore,
Cross-dressing
Queer.
No. I am not your queer.
I am no bear or cub
I am no twink
I am no circuit fag
No pup
I am no otter or DL brother
I am not into BDSM, and no
I won't fuck gym rats in the sauna.
Don’t wanna.
I am not your queer.
Or didn’t you hear,
I drink beer and vodka.
I eat pears and gluten free pasta.
I listen to Jacoby,
I sing to Chapin,
I write for art
On thin toilet paper
You will never read
Because there are better words on the bathroom stall...
No, I am not your queer at all.
Because I when I climbed out of the closet,
I came out alone, man,
So I forget why someone else preaches who I am.
Let’s make it clear…
I am the infinity of me, and
I am not your queer.
Clearly you expect a dick sucker
To pucker up to your agenda
But I am not your queer.
I am not your GBF...
I am not liberal to your causes...
I am not a rainbow flag
Bending over backwards for conservative progress...
I am not your queer.
I am not a hot pocket steaming with AIDS
I am not a puddle for babes
I am of no creed and I have no race
I have no style or worth, while
at face value,
You continue to give me one.
But I am not your queer.
I am not a
methamphetamine pushing Queen.
I am no
Coke-snorting, cock-sucking,
Club-swinging,
Show-tune-singing,
Wrist-wrapping, shoe-tapping,
Hair slicked in lube
Ass lickin’ dude,
Cum guzzling
Gutter whore,
Cross-dressing
Queer.
No. I am not your queer.
I am no bear or cub
I am no twink
I am no circuit fag
No pup
I am no otter or DL brother
I am not into BDSM, and no
I won't fuck gym rats in the sauna.
Don’t wanna.
I am not your queer.
Or didn’t you hear,
I drink beer and vodka.
I eat pears and gluten free pasta.
I listen to Jacoby,
I sing to Chapin,
I write for art
On thin toilet paper
You will never read
Because there are better words on the bathroom stall...
No, I am not your queer at all.
Because I when I climbed out of the closet,
I came out alone, man,
So I forget why someone else preaches who I am.
Let’s make it clear…
I am the infinity of me, and
I am not your queer.
Election Night 2016; or my 26th Birthday
Social Studies:
A fixation--
A mind languishing
In fascination
Over a textbook case
Of factual manipulation;
A soul anguishing
In hate, a pheasant under glass,
Because of our state-sponsored system
Of education by class,
Sorry, alternative facts.
Don’t believe it? Check the flashback...
It's the night it sucked to my asthma
Catching the election on my birthday bar's plasma,
And choking on the moment
Little hands beat capital Hillary!
LIVE on TV!
Can you believe it? Can I?
That son of elites
Beat the sheeple with lies!
Now I'm staring in shock,
And weeping with millions
Pounding our last shots
To the rhythm of "billions and billions."
Pure disbelief--
Watching results pour across the stations
Knowing we just witnessed the decimation of
A young nation;
Now we caught up in conflict
Over the nomination of a convict—a racist
Whose policies are baseless,
A tyrant in a tie championing uncivil lies for the final inquisition.
You think it's just superstition?
Try three nails and a cross
Dictating a dictator's bosses.
Class, the next chapter’s all about
Civilian losses
A fixation--
A mind languishing
In fascination
Over a textbook case
Of factual manipulation;
A soul anguishing
In hate, a pheasant under glass,
Because of our state-sponsored system
Of education by class,
Sorry, alternative facts.
Don’t believe it? Check the flashback...
It's the night it sucked to my asthma
Catching the election on my birthday bar's plasma,
And choking on the moment
Little hands beat capital Hillary!
LIVE on TV!
Can you believe it? Can I?
That son of elites
Beat the sheeple with lies!
Now I'm staring in shock,
And weeping with millions
Pounding our last shots
To the rhythm of "billions and billions."
Pure disbelief--
Watching results pour across the stations
Knowing we just witnessed the decimation of
A young nation;
Now we caught up in conflict
Over the nomination of a convict—a racist
Whose policies are baseless,
A tyrant in a tie championing uncivil lies for the final inquisition.
You think it's just superstition?
Try three nails and a cross
Dictating a dictator's bosses.
Class, the next chapter’s all about
Civilian losses
CLICKITY CLOCKS
Alarmed by silence,
City hearts bloom to catch the morning dream
Before work.
A lucid grey water sweeps over their
Clouded visions of night,
Jolting heads from their flower bed
Only to be caught, trapped alive
In their own concrete web.
Weakened, blinded by the fluorescent radiance,
They are repackaged and shipped
Into a bigger box fit for work--
A cube made for Masters of a single matter:
The ladder.
Tick. Tick. Tock.
8 o’clock, Post Mortem.
Subways chime the roaring
End of hours.
Souls crawl underground
In a fleeting escape to
Drop their hopes off at at home,
Only to return once again
To walk through twilight
As shadows of someone else.
There in the streets,
In the ever glowing darkness dusking
Over the obelisks, they say,
“Night is drank and dreamt
Until the clock reminds its hands:
Time to work.”
City hearts bloom to catch the morning dream
Before work.
A lucid grey water sweeps over their
Clouded visions of night,
Jolting heads from their flower bed
Only to be caught, trapped alive
In their own concrete web.
Weakened, blinded by the fluorescent radiance,
They are repackaged and shipped
Into a bigger box fit for work--
A cube made for Masters of a single matter:
The ladder.
Tick. Tick. Tock.
8 o’clock, Post Mortem.
Subways chime the roaring
End of hours.
Souls crawl underground
In a fleeting escape to
Drop their hopes off at at home,
Only to return once again
To walk through twilight
As shadows of someone else.
There in the streets,
In the ever glowing darkness dusking
Over the obelisks, they say,
“Night is drank and dreamt
Until the clock reminds its hands:
Time to work.”
Tax Day
The currency of taxonomy
Is taxing me.
Classifying classes
Just to calculate my taxes
And the duty's free.
But it's taxing me
Making exemptions for castes
Breaking bread from my back,
Just to feed their dependents from the elephant's ass.
And it's taxing me
Writing day on day
For pennies barely able to turn a page
Dreaming of the moment there's no debt unpaid.
Excuse me sir, can you spare some change?
Sorry strange', my pockets are plastic
But if you take credit, can I please get some cash back?
Cus I'm struggling to pay
More taxes to pave
More streets and more graves,
Concrete to cover
More homes of more slaves;
More price fixed prisons
With room for more names.
And it's taxing me
Donating to the IRS
So freedom fighters can drop dollars
on the Land of Daesh,
It's a land of death
Another headline headache
About trouble in the west
And it's taxing me
Seeing factories in foliage
Gangrene ripening industry into spoilage
Watching the rust belt whipping dad
Because a factory job's all you ever needed to have
And it's taxing me, how
In a flash of my lashes
Fear secured the safety net
Around the political classes
Who say terror's due to coalition crashes
Not colonies,
Not cold wars,
Not repercussive actions.
And it's taxing me
Breaking the bank to breathe
Until there's nothing left for them
To tax from me.
Is taxing me.
Classifying classes
Just to calculate my taxes
And the duty's free.
But it's taxing me
Making exemptions for castes
Breaking bread from my back,
Just to feed their dependents from the elephant's ass.
And it's taxing me
Writing day on day
For pennies barely able to turn a page
Dreaming of the moment there's no debt unpaid.
Excuse me sir, can you spare some change?
Sorry strange', my pockets are plastic
But if you take credit, can I please get some cash back?
Cus I'm struggling to pay
More taxes to pave
More streets and more graves,
Concrete to cover
More homes of more slaves;
More price fixed prisons
With room for more names.
And it's taxing me
Donating to the IRS
So freedom fighters can drop dollars
on the Land of Daesh,
It's a land of death
Another headline headache
About trouble in the west
And it's taxing me
Seeing factories in foliage
Gangrene ripening industry into spoilage
Watching the rust belt whipping dad
Because a factory job's all you ever needed to have
And it's taxing me, how
In a flash of my lashes
Fear secured the safety net
Around the political classes
Who say terror's due to coalition crashes
Not colonies,
Not cold wars,
Not repercussive actions.
And it's taxing me
Breaking the bank to breathe
Until there's nothing left for them
To tax from me.
New York Pick-Up
I see the taxis passing by
Catching all us cattle flies.
Catching all us cattle flies.
Stratus; or As You, I.
I cannot tell if this is the beginning or end. I cannot tell much apart right now. I can tell you true sadness isn’t a feeling at all. It’s pure oblivion. A cloud draped over your eyes and ears and mind and tongue. Thoughts turn to mist, existing only to not exist. You cannot feel, only grasp. Yet nothing remains to hold on to.
Our story began and ended in the middle. One fateful morning that asked for his life and passed it to me to forever keep. It was early autumn, and I’d just returned from a night chained in Laurent's Dungeon. Sam never showed. He never followed through. This was to be the night. When Laurent’s guests arrived they took off my clothes, they took my phone, and left me standing bare, all the more naked without Sam.
When I returned home in the morning the door was unlocked. Sam welcomed me in silence. He must still be out, I thought. More amazed I could even hear myself; that I could think. I thought the voice in my head left me last night after…
“Sam, are you home?! Sam, are you freaking kidding me!” I finally took in the room. There were empty needles, empty vials, empty bottles everywhere, a shattered mirror on the kitchen table, and, down on the linoleum, Sam.
“Sam!!”
Everything blurred and cleared at once. Everything in motion and still, dust particles suspended like stars. Dammit Sam, not you, not you, pleassse not you.
I pulled him into my arms and laid him across my lap. He twitched. Please, please let there still be time, I just have to get this out of him. Where is the naloxone?! I reached for the drawer with ipecac, struggling to keep his head up. Then he looked at me and put his hand on my cheek, a sad smile falling across his face. Thank fucking Christ, he’s alive. I pulled his sweaty, tow head to my shoulder and kissed his lips, soaking his cheek in tears. Thank you, thank you, thank you.
No. Something is off. He tasted like....like...pennies. Pennies? I reached to my lip. When I pulled my finger away blood came with it. His mouth? Then I saw.
The blood crawled from his chest to a cut of sunlight shimmering on the floor. I felt it now, still warm on my skin, seeping through the graphic shirt I borrowed from him the night before. Sam, wait. But like that he was gone, and the universe with him. All that remained were his empty eyes, eyes blue as December noon and just as cold and lifeless now. I love you...It’s too late.
Sam, as if gods have ears, Sam, tell me where are you looking? I tried following his glimmer to whatever fulfillment he found. But I only saw vacancy. An emptiness. An absence I desired. A void where he now stood all alone. Sam, I could stand there, too! Silent. Side by side. Not a word, I promise.
No, you would say. Go home.
Sam, I am, but you’re not here. My hands hold you, but they are empty. There is nothing now, only blood. There is nothing forward, only back. And there, only reenacted memories.
People say the world grows dim and dark when love dies, but, really, only the grey matters. We reimagine synapses. We replay gilded memories. Coping, hoping, praying we feel again. We love again. We smell his almond scented hair again.
You are growing cold, Sam. We were meant to grow old, Sam.
Remember the day I met you? You were slouched forward on your stoop watching water bugs skate on a puddle. Lean, blond, absently laughing at nothing more than the insectual ballet. Your smile was the most infectious thing I’d ever seen. Everything seemed like it came so easy to you. How little did I know then. Remember lying on the roof that night? Your eyes lost in this stratus fear that one day you will return home. I promised you never would. I promised you that I’d never let you be afraid.
What I miss most is sleeping face to face, fighting for the final eclipsing glimpse before we closed our eyes to sleep. I miss the rhythmic arithmetic of our bodies; the corpus chorus chiming in the night. Without the ticking, I find myself lost in the riddle of time; searching through thoughts, through photos I've lost, just to find more seconds next to you.
And I think about when my hand would fall asleep under your shoulder. When wind and drum reverberated through bone and skin and blood. The warmth from the hearth of your heart. The fire of your breath on my ear. Those were the moments, the few moments, I could finally stop worrying about sleep and just dream. Dreams of dancing in a cabin upstate, high on you and drunk on bourbon, Isaac Gracie singing his Last Words as we spun on the shag rug. Dreams of hiking the Himalayas and Mayan ruins. Of showing you my favorite hill in Denmark. Dreams of one day holding little Finn, something I never thought would happen in my life until I found you.
Already, I’m losing you to the shadows of my memories. Through foggy thoughts of you, slouched backward on a green bench. Lean, absent—with a charmingly vile smile. Your eyes reflecting an empty sky.
There was happiness hidden in your empty stare. Fragile and hanging like a twisted half-opened curtain hastily roped to a sill. Yet it stood fast, resolved to fight the tempest winds blowing in. Why did you keep fighting?
If only we could walk into death together, then perhaps I would not seek a new life in you, Sam. In your touch and the thought of your nose wrapping the cape of my neck. A brush stroke of your lips against my ear. Your whisper, spoken in a soundwave passed just between you and I.
I will not tell your secrets. But keep mine. This one: We are never together in another life. For every day we would pass as strangers. You would glance. And I would nod. And forever that would be. Because in that life, we're certain of certainty.
Take care, dear Sam. I gave him one last kiss and closed his eyes. For now, I go to live as you, and as you, I.
Our story began and ended in the middle. One fateful morning that asked for his life and passed it to me to forever keep. It was early autumn, and I’d just returned from a night chained in Laurent's Dungeon. Sam never showed. He never followed through. This was to be the night. When Laurent’s guests arrived they took off my clothes, they took my phone, and left me standing bare, all the more naked without Sam.
When I returned home in the morning the door was unlocked. Sam welcomed me in silence. He must still be out, I thought. More amazed I could even hear myself; that I could think. I thought the voice in my head left me last night after…
“Sam, are you home?! Sam, are you freaking kidding me!” I finally took in the room. There were empty needles, empty vials, empty bottles everywhere, a shattered mirror on the kitchen table, and, down on the linoleum, Sam.
“Sam!!”
Everything blurred and cleared at once. Everything in motion and still, dust particles suspended like stars. Dammit Sam, not you, not you, pleassse not you.
I pulled him into my arms and laid him across my lap. He twitched. Please, please let there still be time, I just have to get this out of him. Where is the naloxone?! I reached for the drawer with ipecac, struggling to keep his head up. Then he looked at me and put his hand on my cheek, a sad smile falling across his face. Thank fucking Christ, he’s alive. I pulled his sweaty, tow head to my shoulder and kissed his lips, soaking his cheek in tears. Thank you, thank you, thank you.
No. Something is off. He tasted like....like...pennies. Pennies? I reached to my lip. When I pulled my finger away blood came with it. His mouth? Then I saw.
The blood crawled from his chest to a cut of sunlight shimmering on the floor. I felt it now, still warm on my skin, seeping through the graphic shirt I borrowed from him the night before. Sam, wait. But like that he was gone, and the universe with him. All that remained were his empty eyes, eyes blue as December noon and just as cold and lifeless now. I love you...It’s too late.
Sam, as if gods have ears, Sam, tell me where are you looking? I tried following his glimmer to whatever fulfillment he found. But I only saw vacancy. An emptiness. An absence I desired. A void where he now stood all alone. Sam, I could stand there, too! Silent. Side by side. Not a word, I promise.
No, you would say. Go home.
Sam, I am, but you’re not here. My hands hold you, but they are empty. There is nothing now, only blood. There is nothing forward, only back. And there, only reenacted memories.
People say the world grows dim and dark when love dies, but, really, only the grey matters. We reimagine synapses. We replay gilded memories. Coping, hoping, praying we feel again. We love again. We smell his almond scented hair again.
You are growing cold, Sam. We were meant to grow old, Sam.
Remember the day I met you? You were slouched forward on your stoop watching water bugs skate on a puddle. Lean, blond, absently laughing at nothing more than the insectual ballet. Your smile was the most infectious thing I’d ever seen. Everything seemed like it came so easy to you. How little did I know then. Remember lying on the roof that night? Your eyes lost in this stratus fear that one day you will return home. I promised you never would. I promised you that I’d never let you be afraid.
What I miss most is sleeping face to face, fighting for the final eclipsing glimpse before we closed our eyes to sleep. I miss the rhythmic arithmetic of our bodies; the corpus chorus chiming in the night. Without the ticking, I find myself lost in the riddle of time; searching through thoughts, through photos I've lost, just to find more seconds next to you.
And I think about when my hand would fall asleep under your shoulder. When wind and drum reverberated through bone and skin and blood. The warmth from the hearth of your heart. The fire of your breath on my ear. Those were the moments, the few moments, I could finally stop worrying about sleep and just dream. Dreams of dancing in a cabin upstate, high on you and drunk on bourbon, Isaac Gracie singing his Last Words as we spun on the shag rug. Dreams of hiking the Himalayas and Mayan ruins. Of showing you my favorite hill in Denmark. Dreams of one day holding little Finn, something I never thought would happen in my life until I found you.
Already, I’m losing you to the shadows of my memories. Through foggy thoughts of you, slouched backward on a green bench. Lean, absent—with a charmingly vile smile. Your eyes reflecting an empty sky.
There was happiness hidden in your empty stare. Fragile and hanging like a twisted half-opened curtain hastily roped to a sill. Yet it stood fast, resolved to fight the tempest winds blowing in. Why did you keep fighting?
If only we could walk into death together, then perhaps I would not seek a new life in you, Sam. In your touch and the thought of your nose wrapping the cape of my neck. A brush stroke of your lips against my ear. Your whisper, spoken in a soundwave passed just between you and I.
I will not tell your secrets. But keep mine. This one: We are never together in another life. For every day we would pass as strangers. You would glance. And I would nod. And forever that would be. Because in that life, we're certain of certainty.
Take care, dear Sam. I gave him one last kiss and closed his eyes. For now, I go to live as you, and as you, I.
To Ogden Nash
We live two lives,
Or so it seems,
One through eyes
And the other,
Dreams.
Or so it seems,
One through eyes
And the other,
Dreams.
THE FLY OUTSIDE THE WINDOW SILL ON A NOVEMBER MORNING
Like a fly facing winter
Life splinters
Til death do us part
It knows.
For the fly dies
Whether or not
He sneaks inside,
Or it snows.
Life splinters
Til death do us part
It knows.
For the fly dies
Whether or not
He sneaks inside,
Or it snows.
dear sam
Saturday I swung
With my lover dancing
Late in the club, the fairy boys
Prancing. Around us, tongues
Of fire locked in tango, and while
I had Danish lips of mango,
Three feet away I could not help
But lift my eyes and catch you,
Caught, awash in a dreamer’s drift,
Kissing your tryst and missing
My stare as I glared a hiss through
Disco light flair. Then I knew
Then and there, that you
Were once again
Enough, dear
Sam
Sam,
If I’m to die tomorrow
I could forego many sorrows
Knowing in the end I chanced
Amongst the dancers to count you
As the finest of answers. For what seemed
To be ever more gracious than a dream
To me, swayed at my side in starlight,
A shining little starlette who moved
So sweet, I knew I’d seen
Enough, dear
Sam.
Sam,
If only my mouth could move
The way my fingers do, then
I could articulate when nights
Grow late - yet I ramble and stutter
Looking upon my platonic lover,
When inside the truth shouts
To let my feelings out!
And instead of this dread,
I could silence my head
And pull you close
To whisper, “That’s
Enough,” dear
Sam
Sam,
Our friendship flourished
Before it fell, blue eyes bloomed,
Black ties, perfumes, and caramels.
But when days turned to dusk and steel faded to rust
A moon dawned in the sky
Revealing a tale and a lie
That made us believe
We’ll never be
Enough, dear
Sam
Sam,
As an introvert, I find
It harder to do than say,
And so every day I write
Words I pray only my eyes will read
About you and muses, or
How misery is fine for me,
And amusing, but I believe
That may not be true
Enough, dear
Sam
Sam,
I am once again failing to write
Because thoughts of you
Chase words from sight,
And I choke as I watch
Letters disintegrate from thought,
Away from mind and into abyss,
If only I were brave enough
To chance your lips
Then perhaps my pen would
Sound again. Tell me
That’s worth
Enough, dear
Sam
Sam,
Honestly, I’m sick and tired
Of rhyming, and measuring meter
And timing just to impress you
When all I want to do is undress
The truth about why we never
Seem to be anymore
Than a dream, but I guess
Things are good
Enough, dear
Sam
Sam,
With our days ever running low
I must say before we go, dear
Sam, I do not like green eggs
And ham, and I couldn’t stand
More burnt toast and jam,
But you, I’ll take as
You are. Because
You’re filling
Enough, dear
Sam
Sam,
I’m saying perhaps I’d love
Green eggs and ham — with
A side of Sam. Understand. So
I could dig into my synopsis
About a simple hypothesis - a theory -
Beckoning a query that says,
What would happen if I never fire the fan?
How could I ever tell if
The only man I melt with...
How could I say?
Your sunshine tastes like
Ice cream sundae... simple
Enough? Dear,
Sam
Sam,
I’m weary from this melancholic
Dreary chaining me to my heart
And binding my sight in the heat
Of the night, Oh why! I cry,
For now the only art I see
Is the man in front of me,
And the only sound I hear
Rings in my ears!
And sings to my fears!
Telling my soul
You’ve found another whole,
But I know he’s not
Enough, dear
Sam
That’s enough Sam.
I said enough Sam!
Enough Sam!
Enough
Dear
Sam,
The rhymes are gone.
The music forgotten.
You’re a gilded apple
With a rotten core. And
I saw later you last night
At the speakeasy door,
10 years older, bearded now,
Charming as you are —
Pampered as you are --
And realized,
There’s never been a caterpillar
Who refused to leave the chrysalis,
Except you.
And that’s a pity,
Sam.
With my lover dancing
Late in the club, the fairy boys
Prancing. Around us, tongues
Of fire locked in tango, and while
I had Danish lips of mango,
Three feet away I could not help
But lift my eyes and catch you,
Caught, awash in a dreamer’s drift,
Kissing your tryst and missing
My stare as I glared a hiss through
Disco light flair. Then I knew
Then and there, that you
Were once again
Enough, dear
Sam
Sam,
If I’m to die tomorrow
I could forego many sorrows
Knowing in the end I chanced
Amongst the dancers to count you
As the finest of answers. For what seemed
To be ever more gracious than a dream
To me, swayed at my side in starlight,
A shining little starlette who moved
So sweet, I knew I’d seen
Enough, dear
Sam.
Sam,
If only my mouth could move
The way my fingers do, then
I could articulate when nights
Grow late - yet I ramble and stutter
Looking upon my platonic lover,
When inside the truth shouts
To let my feelings out!
And instead of this dread,
I could silence my head
And pull you close
To whisper, “That’s
Enough,” dear
Sam
Sam,
Our friendship flourished
Before it fell, blue eyes bloomed,
Black ties, perfumes, and caramels.
But when days turned to dusk and steel faded to rust
A moon dawned in the sky
Revealing a tale and a lie
That made us believe
We’ll never be
Enough, dear
Sam
Sam,
As an introvert, I find
It harder to do than say,
And so every day I write
Words I pray only my eyes will read
About you and muses, or
How misery is fine for me,
And amusing, but I believe
That may not be true
Enough, dear
Sam
Sam,
I am once again failing to write
Because thoughts of you
Chase words from sight,
And I choke as I watch
Letters disintegrate from thought,
Away from mind and into abyss,
If only I were brave enough
To chance your lips
Then perhaps my pen would
Sound again. Tell me
That’s worth
Enough, dear
Sam
Sam,
Honestly, I’m sick and tired
Of rhyming, and measuring meter
And timing just to impress you
When all I want to do is undress
The truth about why we never
Seem to be anymore
Than a dream, but I guess
Things are good
Enough, dear
Sam
Sam,
With our days ever running low
I must say before we go, dear
Sam, I do not like green eggs
And ham, and I couldn’t stand
More burnt toast and jam,
But you, I’ll take as
You are. Because
You’re filling
Enough, dear
Sam
Sam,
I’m saying perhaps I’d love
Green eggs and ham — with
A side of Sam. Understand. So
I could dig into my synopsis
About a simple hypothesis - a theory -
Beckoning a query that says,
What would happen if I never fire the fan?
How could I ever tell if
The only man I melt with...
How could I say?
Your sunshine tastes like
Ice cream sundae... simple
Enough? Dear,
Sam
Sam,
I’m weary from this melancholic
Dreary chaining me to my heart
And binding my sight in the heat
Of the night, Oh why! I cry,
For now the only art I see
Is the man in front of me,
And the only sound I hear
Rings in my ears!
And sings to my fears!
Telling my soul
You’ve found another whole,
But I know he’s not
Enough, dear
Sam
That’s enough Sam.
I said enough Sam!
Enough Sam!
Enough
Dear
Sam,
The rhymes are gone.
The music forgotten.
You’re a gilded apple
With a rotten core. And
I saw later you last night
At the speakeasy door,
10 years older, bearded now,
Charming as you are —
Pampered as you are --
And realized,
There’s never been a caterpillar
Who refused to leave the chrysalis,
Except you.
And that’s a pity,
Sam.
Velvet Underground
Walking down the street, you pass these men every day. Not a sign of their demeanor, their clothes or the look in their eyes will give them away. Even among themselves, a member hardly recognizes another unless he is fortunate enough to see his true face, an act requiring a delicate dance of shadowed trust. They remain faceless and hidden to the external world. Some carry a burden of shame; others join merely for the nightly thrill and a chance of physical liberation. All of them sought and found this digital world. These are men with invisible skin. This is the velvet underground.
Mike, a closeted and self-described bi-sexual, is an anonymous member of the velvet underground, a term paying tribute to the 1970s American rock band and counterculture edifice of this lifestyle. In order to keep his identity hidden, he asked to only be known by his first name. Two years ago, he entered the digital world of male-to-male hook-up sites during Fall Quarter of his freshmen year at Ohio University. His journey began as a curiosity for sexual experimentation, a whispering taste for velvet buried deep under his skin. In high school, he never felt the insatiable itch to sneak out and meet another man. Once in Athens, he looked around and apprehended the number of attractive men around him. He believes all guys notice the others, but only those not hidden behind a virile mask admit it. Mike took it further.
Despite his attraction to men, Mike believes women, too, are beautiful in their nature. Physically and emotionally, Mike finds himself drawn to them. The allure of male physique, however, proves too strong, and their apparent detachment from emotion provides Mike with a sensual playground without attachment. Men, he says, all want to get laid, but without the bureaucratic flirtation and dating. He figures men are easier to hook-up with than women, and if you can have the same thing with both, then men will do. How do you find a man without exposing yourself to the judgmental world? Underground.
Today, he doesn’t recall where he first discovered these sites, or, like many others, Mike shies from the truths surrounding his admittance into the underground scene. He does, however, acknowledge the driving appetite pulling the denim between his thighs. His apprehension subsided, and Mike joined adam4adam, an American Internet gay hook-up site. Later, he would install Grindr, the mobile equivalent of adam4adam.
Adam4adam opens with a faded orange background surrounded with images of men embracing, an advertisement for generic Viagra with another saying “Ganster Boo Need $umm (expletive).” Links at the top read “Live Cams,” “Store,” and “Payperview.” Click “Join Free” and you are in. After agreeing to the terms and conditions and verifying your age, you begin by entering a username and a password. The site then prompts you to list your location, select answers from a series of questions regarding your height, age, weight, waist size, hair color and body type. In the Looking For section, the member’s options are Friendship, Relationship, 1-on-1 Sex, 3some/Group Sex, Misc Fetishes and Cam2Cam. After checking which applies to you, the next step offers the member a headline and body text to further describe himself. Sexual position preferences such as top, bottom and versatile appear, establishing the member’s role in sexual connections, along with details such as scene, hobbies, out or not, and options for endowment and HIV status. Each of these options permits the user to leave the section blank. Likewise, users may upload a profile picture if they wish, setting this photo as public or private. Members can upload additional public or private pictures. Most choose private, fearing discovery from a friend or acquaintance. Once a photo is uploaded, the profile is complete, and you open to a gallery of shirtless and nude men in provocative positions. That’s the system in the velvet underground; you define who you are, what you like, when you want it and you pursue.
Most of us will never see this site, experience the fears and thrills associated with seeking a hook-up online, or understand how we drive people to live in the obscure, velvet-laced underground world. Most of us will live in blissful ignorance that such a world exists. Some of us will take the time to reach out and speak to a friend who fears public scrutiny of their sexuality. A few of us will tell men such as Mike we support their lifestyle and, in the open, will stand up and unwaveringly combat the prejudices we face in our day-to-day lives. Most will not.
Mike’s appetite for masculine sexual encounters lead him straight into this scene. He tried seeking men in the sunlight, but, in his words, it’s harder for gay and bi-sexual guys to find someone. It’s not so obvious looking through eyes to find other men looking for men to hook up with. Straight men and women, on the other hand, simply pursue the opposite gender with little doubt regarding their sexual orientation. This is a straight privilege. Unable to hunt in the open, this site became Mike’s best friend.
On many nights, Mike logged onto adam4adam for a quick hormonal release. Good nights bring forward guys that are a good match for whatever you’re looking for. It starts with a message, either a simple hello or a formal introduction. If the other man is online, which the website displays, he typically responds promptly. Sunday tea chatter gives way to business talk. Why are you here? What’s in it for me? Where do you want to meet? That is, given both men are straightforward, honest and set their actual picture on their profile.
Each man attempts to interrogate the other without coming off as too pushy or creepy. Beginning with conversation, the two may unlock their pictures for each other if there is a mutual attraction or curiosity. However, since both members naturally disbelieve a significant amount of information from the opposite’s profile, the interrogation continues. Eventually, the parties must follow one of four paths. Either they exchange photos, recognize attraction or distaste and proceed to never speak again or to arrange a meeting. Other times, neither submits to revealing their identity first, and a battle ensues for submission. Should one of the two forfeit their face, torso or body, the conversation continues much akin to the first two scenarios. If neither succumbs, the conversation dwindles, dies and each proceeds on to the next member. Half of the men one encounters, according to Mike, are genuine. The other half are deceitful, with false ages, profile pictures, or another, darker secret looming safely in digital space.
One night, sitting in his dorm on East Green Mike felt the urge for primal male-to-male release. He logged in to adam4adam and browsed the selection. After messaging several members, he chose his meat for the night. The man he was to see claimed to be a 21-year-old college student only two years older than himself. Mike threw on his shoes, grabbed his dorm keys and ventured into the twilight. In this world of deception and mistrust, instinct prevails. As Mike approaches the man’s house, nerves pull at his throat. He pauses. Waits. The man seemed normal enough to Mike, so he chose to proceed. A minute later, he stands face-to-face with a 30-something man who looks nothing like the images on the web. Mike must act quickly to develop an escape plan. Seconds tick and the man draws near. Although Mike doesn’t remember the lie he told, the memory of betrayal that night lingers dryly in the back of his throat. Lesson learned.
Now Mike lives in a state of high alert when he enters the velvet underground. When another member asks for a photo from Mike, he deliberately runs through a series of pre-determined, routine questions to prove their age, identity, openness about their sexuality and physical attributes. Can you send me a few more pictures of yourself again? Where do you live? What do you study? What are you looking for? Are you out? Do you promise you will delete my pictures after I send them? One can never be too careful when reputation is on the line. Apart from the risk of being killed, raped or contracting sexually transmitted diseases, being outted to friends, or worse, family, is the greatest fear in most of their minds. Nevertheless, these are natural risks when you enter this world closeted, and Mike knows it.
Not every night ends in disappointment or fear. Half the time, according to Mike, one does meet a guy who is safe, normal and wants a nightly fling without strings attached. Scenarios such as this follow the same aforementioned regiment of truth seeking and unveiling the liars. If either one remains in the closet, although not always the case, the two of you chat, battle over exchanging pictures, and finally come to terms and accept the other. Then you consider your choices for the evening. Do you want the promiscuous guy two dorms down from your room, the one across campus with the athlete’s body, or the guy you met last week? No one remembers the last option: choosing to do nothing. However, once you make the choice the game truly begins.
Remember, this velvet world is underground, and to break the code of secrecy rarely occurs without a third party discovery. Thus, now that you’ve selected your nightly mate, the next step is to get there incognito or sneak him into your place. College makes this part easier. You tell your roommate you are heading to the library, to see another friend, a group meeting or the rec center for a late workout. Ironically, the technology that enables the hook-ups also creates an inescapable mode of communication.Sorry, I had my phone on silent while studying. Problem solved.
Now it’s time to get off. Another nervous dance occurs before skin meets skin. Often to ensure he doesn’t meet another wicker man, Mike greets his velvet lover in public and walks for a bit. During the walk, the two force conversation to mask the shame and uncomfortable sensations tugging at their conscious. There are times, Mike admits, when the walk is the best part of the night. Some nights, the conversation itself is his sole pursuit. When one is underground, openness is nonexistent, and the opportunity to share your stories and experiences with a likeminded other is rare. Ultimately, these brief chats before sexual release opened the underground world to Mike further than the limited scope of the sites. You learn everyone has their level of comfort with their sexuality, and are on contiguous stages of coming out or shutting off. If the conversation goes well enough, it’s to one room or another to finish each other off.
Mike, from a combination of self-preservation and guilt, never has sex the first time. To him, hooking up is shameless, much akin to a handshake. He does not comprehend the negative view society binds to hooking up. Sex, not pleasure, is the guilt. Once he meets a man several times, the foreseen guilt diminishes, and, if their preferred position meets his needs, he slides one in. Despite his fears of sexual diseases, he does not utilize condoms or other preventative measures. The deed is done without a dramatic ending. Both parties bid farewell and, more than likely, will never speak again. Welcome to the velvet underground.
Three years ago Mike submerged himself in digital hook-ups on adam4adam, and today he continues, though less commonly, on the mobile app Grindr. In short, Grindr is a mobile instant messenger that requires no membership, no sign-up, and can be deleted at any given moment. Moreover, Grindr relies on the GPS of your phone and others on the app to determine your proximity to one another, and coordinate you with nearby men. Users such as Mike, do not display a profile picture, but may easily take one from their cell’s camera at any given moment of the conversation. Other users, typically looking for “friends” or “dates,” publish a profile picture that includes their face. This alternate target aim is a crucial variance between the two sites, and may owe itself to a shift in shame. Grindr stands as the technological birth child of online hook-up sites and the app-frenzy consumer. Not only do users display their face, many list their Facebook profile link at the bottom of their page. The access to hook-ups just took an adrenaline shot, but Mike feels more distant from his underground ventures than ever before.
His withdraw is gradual, but speeds along whenever another creep or liar uses him. On both adam4adam and Grindr, men offer Mike money for sexual favors and even to fly him across state lines to meet them. He declines, and continues use of the sites. If these sites were nonexistent, however, he imagines he would be unhappy. Without them, there are no other men to meet in the shadows, dorm rooms and behind buildings. Sometimes after using the site for a significant period of time, Mike recognizes the public shame. He thinks, This isn’t right. I shouldn’t be meeting so many peoples. It’s unsafe. It’s stupid. In anguish, Oh God, what am I doing with my life?!
Mike, a closeted and self-described bi-sexual, is an anonymous member of the velvet underground, a term paying tribute to the 1970s American rock band and counterculture edifice of this lifestyle. In order to keep his identity hidden, he asked to only be known by his first name. Two years ago, he entered the digital world of male-to-male hook-up sites during Fall Quarter of his freshmen year at Ohio University. His journey began as a curiosity for sexual experimentation, a whispering taste for velvet buried deep under his skin. In high school, he never felt the insatiable itch to sneak out and meet another man. Once in Athens, he looked around and apprehended the number of attractive men around him. He believes all guys notice the others, but only those not hidden behind a virile mask admit it. Mike took it further.
Despite his attraction to men, Mike believes women, too, are beautiful in their nature. Physically and emotionally, Mike finds himself drawn to them. The allure of male physique, however, proves too strong, and their apparent detachment from emotion provides Mike with a sensual playground without attachment. Men, he says, all want to get laid, but without the bureaucratic flirtation and dating. He figures men are easier to hook-up with than women, and if you can have the same thing with both, then men will do. How do you find a man without exposing yourself to the judgmental world? Underground.
Today, he doesn’t recall where he first discovered these sites, or, like many others, Mike shies from the truths surrounding his admittance into the underground scene. He does, however, acknowledge the driving appetite pulling the denim between his thighs. His apprehension subsided, and Mike joined adam4adam, an American Internet gay hook-up site. Later, he would install Grindr, the mobile equivalent of adam4adam.
Adam4adam opens with a faded orange background surrounded with images of men embracing, an advertisement for generic Viagra with another saying “Ganster Boo Need $umm (expletive).” Links at the top read “Live Cams,” “Store,” and “Payperview.” Click “Join Free” and you are in. After agreeing to the terms and conditions and verifying your age, you begin by entering a username and a password. The site then prompts you to list your location, select answers from a series of questions regarding your height, age, weight, waist size, hair color and body type. In the Looking For section, the member’s options are Friendship, Relationship, 1-on-1 Sex, 3some/Group Sex, Misc Fetishes and Cam2Cam. After checking which applies to you, the next step offers the member a headline and body text to further describe himself. Sexual position preferences such as top, bottom and versatile appear, establishing the member’s role in sexual connections, along with details such as scene, hobbies, out or not, and options for endowment and HIV status. Each of these options permits the user to leave the section blank. Likewise, users may upload a profile picture if they wish, setting this photo as public or private. Members can upload additional public or private pictures. Most choose private, fearing discovery from a friend or acquaintance. Once a photo is uploaded, the profile is complete, and you open to a gallery of shirtless and nude men in provocative positions. That’s the system in the velvet underground; you define who you are, what you like, when you want it and you pursue.
Most of us will never see this site, experience the fears and thrills associated with seeking a hook-up online, or understand how we drive people to live in the obscure, velvet-laced underground world. Most of us will live in blissful ignorance that such a world exists. Some of us will take the time to reach out and speak to a friend who fears public scrutiny of their sexuality. A few of us will tell men such as Mike we support their lifestyle and, in the open, will stand up and unwaveringly combat the prejudices we face in our day-to-day lives. Most will not.
Mike’s appetite for masculine sexual encounters lead him straight into this scene. He tried seeking men in the sunlight, but, in his words, it’s harder for gay and bi-sexual guys to find someone. It’s not so obvious looking through eyes to find other men looking for men to hook up with. Straight men and women, on the other hand, simply pursue the opposite gender with little doubt regarding their sexual orientation. This is a straight privilege. Unable to hunt in the open, this site became Mike’s best friend.
On many nights, Mike logged onto adam4adam for a quick hormonal release. Good nights bring forward guys that are a good match for whatever you’re looking for. It starts with a message, either a simple hello or a formal introduction. If the other man is online, which the website displays, he typically responds promptly. Sunday tea chatter gives way to business talk. Why are you here? What’s in it for me? Where do you want to meet? That is, given both men are straightforward, honest and set their actual picture on their profile.
Each man attempts to interrogate the other without coming off as too pushy or creepy. Beginning with conversation, the two may unlock their pictures for each other if there is a mutual attraction or curiosity. However, since both members naturally disbelieve a significant amount of information from the opposite’s profile, the interrogation continues. Eventually, the parties must follow one of four paths. Either they exchange photos, recognize attraction or distaste and proceed to never speak again or to arrange a meeting. Other times, neither submits to revealing their identity first, and a battle ensues for submission. Should one of the two forfeit their face, torso or body, the conversation continues much akin to the first two scenarios. If neither succumbs, the conversation dwindles, dies and each proceeds on to the next member. Half of the men one encounters, according to Mike, are genuine. The other half are deceitful, with false ages, profile pictures, or another, darker secret looming safely in digital space.
One night, sitting in his dorm on East Green Mike felt the urge for primal male-to-male release. He logged in to adam4adam and browsed the selection. After messaging several members, he chose his meat for the night. The man he was to see claimed to be a 21-year-old college student only two years older than himself. Mike threw on his shoes, grabbed his dorm keys and ventured into the twilight. In this world of deception and mistrust, instinct prevails. As Mike approaches the man’s house, nerves pull at his throat. He pauses. Waits. The man seemed normal enough to Mike, so he chose to proceed. A minute later, he stands face-to-face with a 30-something man who looks nothing like the images on the web. Mike must act quickly to develop an escape plan. Seconds tick and the man draws near. Although Mike doesn’t remember the lie he told, the memory of betrayal that night lingers dryly in the back of his throat. Lesson learned.
Now Mike lives in a state of high alert when he enters the velvet underground. When another member asks for a photo from Mike, he deliberately runs through a series of pre-determined, routine questions to prove their age, identity, openness about their sexuality and physical attributes. Can you send me a few more pictures of yourself again? Where do you live? What do you study? What are you looking for? Are you out? Do you promise you will delete my pictures after I send them? One can never be too careful when reputation is on the line. Apart from the risk of being killed, raped or contracting sexually transmitted diseases, being outted to friends, or worse, family, is the greatest fear in most of their minds. Nevertheless, these are natural risks when you enter this world closeted, and Mike knows it.
Not every night ends in disappointment or fear. Half the time, according to Mike, one does meet a guy who is safe, normal and wants a nightly fling without strings attached. Scenarios such as this follow the same aforementioned regiment of truth seeking and unveiling the liars. If either one remains in the closet, although not always the case, the two of you chat, battle over exchanging pictures, and finally come to terms and accept the other. Then you consider your choices for the evening. Do you want the promiscuous guy two dorms down from your room, the one across campus with the athlete’s body, or the guy you met last week? No one remembers the last option: choosing to do nothing. However, once you make the choice the game truly begins.
Remember, this velvet world is underground, and to break the code of secrecy rarely occurs without a third party discovery. Thus, now that you’ve selected your nightly mate, the next step is to get there incognito or sneak him into your place. College makes this part easier. You tell your roommate you are heading to the library, to see another friend, a group meeting or the rec center for a late workout. Ironically, the technology that enables the hook-ups also creates an inescapable mode of communication.Sorry, I had my phone on silent while studying. Problem solved.
Now it’s time to get off. Another nervous dance occurs before skin meets skin. Often to ensure he doesn’t meet another wicker man, Mike greets his velvet lover in public and walks for a bit. During the walk, the two force conversation to mask the shame and uncomfortable sensations tugging at their conscious. There are times, Mike admits, when the walk is the best part of the night. Some nights, the conversation itself is his sole pursuit. When one is underground, openness is nonexistent, and the opportunity to share your stories and experiences with a likeminded other is rare. Ultimately, these brief chats before sexual release opened the underground world to Mike further than the limited scope of the sites. You learn everyone has their level of comfort with their sexuality, and are on contiguous stages of coming out or shutting off. If the conversation goes well enough, it’s to one room or another to finish each other off.
Mike, from a combination of self-preservation and guilt, never has sex the first time. To him, hooking up is shameless, much akin to a handshake. He does not comprehend the negative view society binds to hooking up. Sex, not pleasure, is the guilt. Once he meets a man several times, the foreseen guilt diminishes, and, if their preferred position meets his needs, he slides one in. Despite his fears of sexual diseases, he does not utilize condoms or other preventative measures. The deed is done without a dramatic ending. Both parties bid farewell and, more than likely, will never speak again. Welcome to the velvet underground.
Three years ago Mike submerged himself in digital hook-ups on adam4adam, and today he continues, though less commonly, on the mobile app Grindr. In short, Grindr is a mobile instant messenger that requires no membership, no sign-up, and can be deleted at any given moment. Moreover, Grindr relies on the GPS of your phone and others on the app to determine your proximity to one another, and coordinate you with nearby men. Users such as Mike, do not display a profile picture, but may easily take one from their cell’s camera at any given moment of the conversation. Other users, typically looking for “friends” or “dates,” publish a profile picture that includes their face. This alternate target aim is a crucial variance between the two sites, and may owe itself to a shift in shame. Grindr stands as the technological birth child of online hook-up sites and the app-frenzy consumer. Not only do users display their face, many list their Facebook profile link at the bottom of their page. The access to hook-ups just took an adrenaline shot, but Mike feels more distant from his underground ventures than ever before.
His withdraw is gradual, but speeds along whenever another creep or liar uses him. On both adam4adam and Grindr, men offer Mike money for sexual favors and even to fly him across state lines to meet them. He declines, and continues use of the sites. If these sites were nonexistent, however, he imagines he would be unhappy. Without them, there are no other men to meet in the shadows, dorm rooms and behind buildings. Sometimes after using the site for a significant period of time, Mike recognizes the public shame. He thinks, This isn’t right. I shouldn’t be meeting so many peoples. It’s unsafe. It’s stupid. In anguish, Oh God, what am I doing with my life?!